


Brother

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bedside Vigils, Bickering, Gen, Illnesses, Inspired by Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4403009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mummy has a stroke, and Mycroft and Sherlock stand vigil at her bedside. Bickering and revelations.</p><p>(Warnings for hospital intensive care units; no character death)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> Song prompt from ResidentBunburyist:
> 
> On that deathbed our mother lay  
> How long she's got they still can't say  
> It took all this to get us back together again…  
> I know there's better brothers  
> But you're the only one that's mine  
> \- ‘Brother’, Murder by Death

Mycroft gazed down at his mobile, lying on the table. It was perfectly centred on the table, corners aligned with the bottom left corner of the big oak table. With a fingertip, he made it spin in a slow circle, then realigned it. He pressed his lips together, picked it up and dialled.

Sherlock picked up on the third ring. “Busy, Mycroft,” he snapped. Mycroft could tell he was outside, could hear the rabble of a crime scene.

“Mummy’s had a stroke,” he said.

Silence – very brief, perhaps 3.6 seconds, but telling. “Where?” said Sherlock.

“She’s at the Royal Sussex County Hospital. I’m coming in the car; I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Mycroft heard the snap of Sherlock removing his nitrile gloves. “Pick me up two blocks west of here. In front of the dry cleaners.”

So Sherlock didn’t want the police at the crime scene to see him getting in his brother’s car. Fine. “Fine.”

Sherlock disconnected.

**

Sherlock opened the car door and slid into the back seat even before it had come to a complete stop. He slammed the door and wrapped his coat tightly around him.

They were on the A23 before either of them spoke.

“What happened?” Sherlock said.

“Marie found her in the study when she brought in Mummy’s mid-morning tea. Fortunately she was sitting on the sofa; if she had been standing near the hearth it would have been much worse.”

“What do you mean, found her?” Sherlock said sharply. “Why wasn’t she with her?”

“She’d gone to get the tea, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s chin sank into the collar of his coat. “Bloody incompetent staff. Who hired her? Oh, yes, you.”

“Marie is perfectly competent. We didn’t hire her to watch over Mummy, to supervise her twenty four hours a day. She’s Mummy’s secretary and housekeeper, not nurse.”

“Other duties as assigned,” Sherlock said mockingly.

“She also has a certificate in first aid. And anyway, you’ve never shown the slightest interest in helping with the household,” Mycroft said. He wanted to stop himself but the words kept pouring out. “I would certainly appreciate the support.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mycroft. I know you don’t actually do it, you delegate the job to one of your brainless minions.”

“They’re not-” Mycroft took a breath. “Anyway, Marie was only out of the room for ten minutes making the tea. She called 999 right away. It’s not as if she was gallivanting around the countryside.”

Sherlock snorted. “Gallivanting. Why must you always speak as though you were in a bloody Edwardian romance novel.”

“Why must you act like you’re a character in a ‘Boy’s Own Adventure’ novel?”

Sherlock’s head swivelled away from the window to glare at Mycroft. “Get it through your fat head, Mycroft. I am not playing. This is my work. My _vocation_. I’m the best there is. I have an international reputation. You, on the other hand, have an international reputation for having eaten cake in twenty six different countries.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not now, Sherlock. Just – not now.”

Sherlock huffed and was silent for twelve kilometers, staring out the window at the trees flashing past.

“It was a seven.”

“What?” Mycroft said.

“The case. It was a seven. Possibly an eight.”

Mycroft felt acid roll through his belly. “In future, perhaps, I’ll try to arrange for our family emergencies to occur between cases, shall I?” he snapped.

Sherlock turned back to the window, but Mycroft heard him say, quietly, “A _seven_.”

**

The doctor met with them as soon as they arrived. He had clearly been waiting for them.

“She’s stable now, but comatose,” the doctor said. “It’s fortunate she got here so quickly. With strokes, the sooner the medical intervention, the better the outcome.”

Mycroft considered nodding or glaring at Sherlock, emphasizing that he was right about Marie, but decided that any points gained would not be worth it.

“We won’t know the extent of the damage until she wakes,” the doctor continued. “The next forty eight hours are key.”

“May we see her?” said Mycroft. Sherlock burrowed deeper into his coat.

“Of course. I must warn you that she’s hooked up to a number of machines. It might… alarm you.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft said while Sherlock scoffed quietly.

As the doctor led them down the corridor to the Intensive Care Unit, Sherlock hissed, “Why is she here, in this little backwater hospital? She should be in London, at the Royal London.”

“This is the best hospital in Sussex. Besides, I doubt it’s safe to move her yet.”

** 

There were, indeed, a startling number of wires and tubes joining Mummy to machines. A nurse placed two chairs on the right side of Mummy’s bed. Mycroft sat. Sherlock dragged the other chair to the left side of the bed, and sat.

They stared at Mummy for two and a half hours. The only sound was the beep and whirr of the machines, the papery sound of Mummy’s lungs working, being worked for her. They didn’t speak.

**

A nurse politely asked them to step out so she could check Mummy’s vitals. They went down to the cafeteria and bought indifferent tea. Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted a message.

“Who in God’s name are you texting?” Mycroft said.

“John.”

“John? Whatever for?”

“I left in the middle of a crime scene, Mycroft. He was on the way there from the surgery. He wanted to know where I was.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Letting nanny know you’ve gone to the park, then?”

Sherlock glared daggers at Mycroft. “John is my friend. When are you going to get that through your skull?”

“Your _goldfish_.”

“It may surprise you to know that John actually cares about my wellbeing. If he cannot locate me, he worries.”

Mycroft snorted.

Sherlock’s face masked itself, went blank and impassive. “Anyway,” he said, with a deliberately lighter tone, “Now that he knows where I am, I won’t be annoyed by texts every five minutes. He’s texted me five times in the last two hours.”

“How precious.”

“Why don’t you call one of your minions? That should make you feel better.”

“Don’t be childish, Sherlock.” Mycroft stood. “I’m going to find the facilities.”

“God, precious is the right word. Can’t even say toilet.”

Mycroft did not dignify this with a response, and strode out to the hallway. There he took out his mobile and dialled Anthea.

“Sir?”

“I’ll be here for at least forty eight hours, so clear my schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll need you to have a courier come with the Abernathy file, and the numbers that Trevor was putting together for me, and I suppose the Rogers file as well.”

“No, sir.”

Mycroft paused, stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, sir, I will not bring those files. Not at this time.”

“Miss -”

“You already have enough to do there, sir. Good afternoon.”

Anthea disconnected. Mycroft stared at his phone in utter amazement.

**

A courier arrived within three hours, but the bag didn’t contain the files Mycroft wanted. Instead, it contained two toiletry kits, with toothbrushes, razors and grooming products, with each of Mycroft and Sherlock’s preferred brands. Also included were a change of clothes, a list of local restaurants and cafés within a ten minute walk of the hospital, and two e-readers, fully loaded with scientific journals, classic novels and historical books. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Mycroft but mercifully said nothing.

**

Mycroft was amazed at how quickly the hours became a cycle of routine: two hours sitting with Mummy; twenty minutes or so in the cafeteria while the nurses checked her; back to Mummy. It was fortunate that neither of them required much sleep or food, so they could maximize their time with Mummy, but without the artificial guideposts of eating and resting, the hours began to blur into each other.

Mummy never moved, never stirred. Mycroft had to admit he found her stillness disturbing – she had always been filled with restless, fussy energy, whether she was preparing a meal or researching. He found himself reminiscing about the way her hands moved while she poured tea. He forced himself to stop.

After hours of silence, Sherlock suddenly gasped, his eyes wide. He pulled out his mobile and texted something, his fingers blurring over the keys.

“Your seven?” Mycroft said.

“Hm? Yes,” Sherlock said as he put away his phone. The air of smugness around him was oppressive. “I suddenly realized it had to be the nephew.”

“Charming.”

“Pity, really. My first theory was that it was the grandfather, that’s what made the case a seven. The nephew reduces it to a four. Wanted to inherit. Dull.”

“You could have much more interesting cases if you came to work for me. I’ve offered any number of times.”

“And any number of times I’ve said no. And will continue to do so.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because whenever I work for you, I or someone close to me somehow end up getting physically injured. Serbia, the Worthington case, the _Adler_ case, for God’s sake – have you forgotten?”

“The Worthington case was your own fault. If you would only hold to the parameters I set out for you, the situation would have been under control.”

Sherlock turned an icy glare towards him. “Why use me instead of one of your minions then? I assumed you ask me because of a skill set I possess that is lacking in your ranks. Then when I use those skills, you blame me for everything that happens.”

“You always start… _improvising_ ,” Mycroft said, the word feeling bitter in his mouth. “You go off the script and-”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open in wonder. “I see. You think when you ask me to do your field work, that it would be just as if you were out there yourself. As if I’m your clone, your twin, your doppelganger, a remote controlled robot, doing everything as you think I should. Well, surprise, surprise, Mycroft. I’m not you. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I do things my way.”

“That’s not-”

“ _Don’t_ ask me again."

Silence. 

**

“Why did they have to move out here?” Sherlock muttered.

“What?”

“Why did they have to move to Sussex? They could have stayed in London. Much more interesting. It’s so boring here.”

“The hospital, or Sussex in general?”

Sherlock glowered at him. “Both. Sussex.”

“They were retired, Sherlock. Retired people don’t often crave excitement. They liked the peace of it.”

Sherlock slouched in his chair. “Peace. How hateful.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at him. “You would prefer Mummy had returned to London after Father died?”

“At the moment, yes,” Sherlock snapped.

“Because London’s been so good to you.”

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side. “What does that mean?”

“How long after you moved to London did you get in trouble?”

“Define ‘ _in trouble’_ , do, brother dear.”

“Your drug use, of course, brother dear.”

To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock’s face momentarily showed shock and anger, and his eyes flickered towards Mummy. “Shut up, Mycroft,” he said between his teeth.

“She can’t hear you, Sherlock.”

“Coma patients often report hearing what was said to them while they were unconscious.”

“According to whom?”

“John, of course. My friend, with the medical degree?”

“Well, I’m certainly glad we’ve got someone with such extensive medical knowledge in the family now. Anyway, do you really think Mummy didn’t know? That she couldn’t see for herself what you were doing?”

Mycroft could see a flush gathering across Sherlock’s cheekbones. “Shut up,” he muttered, and Mycroft knew he’d scored a point.

“You know, she never said so outright, but I wonder if that’s why she chose to stay in Sussex. If she’d been in London, your behaviour would be directly in her face.”

Sherlock stood, knocking his chair backwards. “Is that why you do it, then? Why you hover over me, mother hen me? Because she wouldn’t – won’t? Because she respects my decisions, you feel you have to take over her role and, and, and oppress me?”

“Lower your voice, Sherlock.”

“All my life you’ve done this. All. My. Life. Never left me alone, never let me live my life. Why? You are always interfering, watching over my shoulder-”

“I nearly lost you once, and I couldn’t-” Mycroft snapped, and immediately tried to seal his mouth around the words.

Sherlock froze. Mycroft took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I’ve never forgiven myself.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock said, quietly, softly.

Mycroft shifted in his chair, ran his hands over his face. He hadn’t intended to say it, but he had, and now there was no turning back.

“When you were two,” he said at last. “We went for a walk in the woods. We stopped in the clearing – you know, where the two oak trees are – and we sat down. You were collecting bugs, and I was reading and-” Mycroft swallowed. He remembered the heat of the day, the prickle of grass against his legs, the exact page of the book he was reading. “I looked up and you were gone. I hadn’t heard you go. I – I searched for half an hour, following what I thought was your trail and then it lead to nothing.”

“You never told me this,” Sherlock whispered.

“I never told anyone,” Mycroft said with a wry smile. “I found you by the pond. You were head to toe covered in mud and scum from the water. You’d fallen in. You went after a frog and fell in and somehow got yourself out again.” Mycroft found himself laughing a little, and feeling sick at the same time. “I’ll never forget – your hair just dripping with sludge, your clothes ruined, and you turned to me with a huge happy smile and held up the frog that you’d captured. You could have drowned, Sherlock, and it would have been entirely my fault.”

Sherlock stood stock still, blinking.

“I-” Sherlock said, and the nurse bustled in.

“Just a few moments, gentlemen, while I-”

Mycroft stood, but Sherlock bolted out the door.

Mycroft drank his tea in the cafeteria alone.

**

Mycroft returned to Mummy’s bedside. His gaze was split between the bed and the empty chair. The time was approaching when decisions would need to be made.

He lowered his hand and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.

A takeaway cup of coffee appeared in his peripheral vision. Sherlock set it down silently on the table next to Mycroft, then crossed to his chair. He sat, then reached into his coat pocket and threw something at Mycroft.

Mycroft caught it, and examined the small stuffed toy frog from the gift shop in the lobby. He looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock sipped his own coffee, and looked at Mummy.

Mycroft swallowed, and drank his coffee.

**

“Ugh,” Sherlock said, grimacing. “Tea really shouldn’t be made by pouring tepid water over a teabag in a cup.”

“A Styrofoam cup, no less.”

“Ugh.”

“I think my tastebuds have been permanently destroyed.”

Sherlock stood and stretched. “There’s a little patisserie down the street, less than ten minutes’ walk away. Why don’t I go and get us a proper tea. And some _pain du chocolat_ , they should be taking a fresh batch out in five minutes.”

“Sounds lovely,” Mycroft said. “But I’ll go – I could use some fresh air.”

“All right,” Sherlock said, pulling out his wallet and handing Mycroft a tenner.

“Nonsense, Sherlock, my treat.”

“No, I insist-”

A low groan from the bed made them freeze. Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft, then back down at Mummy.

She groaned again, but this time the sound became a word: “Boys.”

Mycroft stood and leaned over her bed, next to Sherlock. “Mummy?”

Her head moved from side to side and her eyelids flickered. “Boys,” she said again, and licked her lips. “Stop fighting, boys, I can’t bear it when you fight.”

Mycroft jumped to press the call button for the nurse, smiling as he heard Sherlock laugh.

 

_End_

 


End file.
